Messages

Good to hear there's lots of entries this month.

please extend the deadline!!! 

Will do! I'll see on the 30th how much extra time people need.

Arsenic, mint cornettos, trolls. They're all the same. Each one can kill you if you've had too much.

My point being that recently, just the last few days even, icey has been making more threads/posts than usual. And I think this is what really ticks people off (including me sometimes) because recently his threads are at every turn and the other sections become ghost towns because of it. If it was only the occasional psychotic thread, nobody would mind. It's when the activity becomes more erratic that people notice.

Then again you can please some of the people all of the time, but not all the people some of the time...

I think that's right.

Looking for play tester for Text Quest. It's been on the back burner for ages and need feedback on gameplay.

Qualifications: must be able to read.

The coat of arms is nice, but..... where's the maggot?

Inside the owl. Don't do an image search for maggot. Ever.

Plus, I do think members of the Order should be able to invite other MAGS entrants to join, if their games were exceptional or memorable or just plain brilliant.  We're celebrating creative conquests against the clock here, not just the democratic formality of winning, right?  I intend to propose this at our first secret conclave, at any rate.

Invitations sound good. It would make it less exclusive. On the other hand somebody would need to title them whenever a case for consideration comes up (I have no idea what the process involves). Apart from that, a lot of people have told me they aren't particularly bothered anyway, which is fine

Coerce Fantastic Mr Fox into getting them for you. By tying up his babbies in a sack.

Boris, Bunce and Bean,
One short, one fat, one lean,
These horrible crooks,
Though different in looks,
Are nonetheless equally mean.

But doesn't "adventum" mean "the coming" or something like that?

I translated it on the first site I clicked on so by all means, probably Google says it's simply 'adventure' so I'll change it to that because Google never lies.

The acorns remind us that from the tiniest ideas a game can grow, and the blue chalice shows we are all fraternally bound to serve AGS. The owls are symbolic of our nocturnal selves who emerge when the time is 23:59 before deadline day.

And of course, we live for Adventure Dulcis - sweet adventure.

Will someone design the appropriate heraldry for our coat of arms?

This is right up my street. I'm on it.

Yeah when you create a page there's a box somewhere that you can copy and paste the code into your website. However, it probably won't work in forum sigs.

PS. That's some seriously twisted shit you've done on the welcome page.

Order of the Maggot. I like that. Honi soit qui mal y pense.

Let's also hope there's never a Fortnightly AGS.

It was doing fine until it was bumped

Hello.

In total, there have been 255 MAGS entries over eight years, with an average of 32 per year. As there are 1253 games in the database at the moment, it means 18% of those are MAGS entries. In short, it's quite an achievement to be voted winner of an annual vote over 31 other people, as is being nominated for the AGS awards.

So I thought it would be a good idea to give Maggies winners a title under their avatar. Specifically, our eleven candidates for knighthood:

Mark Fozbee
jaz
Bernie
buloght
Dave Gilbert
Ben304
paolo
ProgZmax
abstauber
Ascovel
Baron

So, what's the general consensus on this? Another question is what the title could be. 'Maggies Winner [year]' keeps it simple but is a tad boring.

While I have the opportunity you can also leave feedback about MAGS in general, excluding supersession of the current host, who's doing a damn good job.

The floor is open.

Shame I won't be able to take part. It's definately time I start taking part in one of these. Maybe next time.

Hope so, MAGS May has a great theme

I'll finish it, since I like the idea. The deadline might prove a problem, but then I'll just take an extra month to polish and make an even better non-MAGS game if that happens.

If needs be I can extend the deadline by a few days.

Holy smokes I'm a Canada Thistle!

"You are a mean spirited, ornery cuss. People try to get rid of you and you just keep coming back."

Nooooooo Calin beat me

[SUCKS]

VERY URGENT - PLEASE READ - NOT A JOKE PASS THIS ON!

IF A PERSON CALLED SIMON ASHTON CONTACTS YOU THROUGH EMAIL DON'T OPEN THE MESSAGE. DELETE IT BECAUSE HE IS A HACKER!! 

TELL EVERYONE ON YOUR LIST   BECAUSE IF SOMEBODY ON YOUR LIST ADDS HIM  THEN YOU WILL GET HIM ON YOUR LIST. HE WILL FIGURE OUT YOUR ID COMPUTER ADDRESS, SO COPY AND PASTE THIS MESSAGE TO EVERYONE EVEN IF YOU DON'T CARE FOR THEM AND FAST BECAUSE IF HE HACKS THEIR EMAIL HE HACKS YOUR MAIL TOO!!!!!..... 

Anyone-using Internet mail such as Yahoo, Hotmail, AOL and so on.  This information arrived this morning, Direct from both Microsoft and Norton. Please send it to everybody you know who has access to the Internet. You may receive an apparently harmless e-mail titled  'Mail Server Report'

If you open either file, a message will appear on your screen saying:  'It is too late now, your life is no longer  beautiful.' 

Subsequently you will LOSE EVERYTHING IN YOUR PC, 
And the person who o sent it to you will gain access to your  name, e-mail and password. 

This is a new virus which started to circulate on Saturday afternoon. AOL has already confirmed the severity, and the anti virus software's are not capable of destroying it ... 

The virus has been created by a hacker who calls himself  'life owner'.. 

PLEASE SEND A COPY OF THIS E-MAIL TO ALL YOUR FRIENDS, And ask them to
PASS IT ON IMMEDIATELY!

Take Care

Lol! Anybody with half a brain cell can tell you it's an IP not an ID, and if your account was "hacked" it's not going to affect your hard-drive. And what kind of lame-ass bad-ass name is "Life Owner" anyway?! Encrypted Wrath, Binary Butcher, Synapse Slayer, now those are some cool tech villain names!

Other things I've had are reams of Spanish which I translated and it's telling me to go to my nearest church straight away and repent for my sins. The funniest I had was some "Korean" girl proclaiming her undying love to me, and reassuring me it's not too late to be together.

I even get spam texts:

Hi, it's John-Paul from Window Wipers. Sorry to text late. I will be there tomorrow to clean windows. If you not in, can you leave gate unlocked. Thanks

Our records indicate you could be owed £3000 for the accident you had. Text CLAIM to claim. Text STOP to stop.

The way spam texts work is the senders set up "business" accounts which charge you £5 or something stupid to text back. Firstly, Window Wipers SUCKS. They have all the originality and intelligence of a sea monkey. Secondly, why are they "texting late" in the middle of the day. Thirdly, texting STOP is such an obvious trap when you've only received one text.

Spam's good for entertainment, but what makes me annoyed is that people actually fall for things so easily. If they didn't spam wouldn't exist. People only seem to take things at face value. I do feel sorry for older people who get taken advantage of with "you've won a £1000", but then again their age group doesn't have a high percentage of internet users and spamming through the letterbox is going the way of the dodo, as it's so much cheaper and easier to distribute things electronically. So in fifty years time I hope people will be more tech-savvy.

Does anybody else have any spam tales? (I mean, tales about spam, not tales of spam)

Domithan!

Why not have elements of both? Put them together in a fusion.

Sweet. This theme is criminally underused!

[Take the Bait]

Take the Bait

The rain had eased, leaving a heavy, scented air.

A stranger paced a platform, which gleamed like ice under the cold, solitary lamplight. Dominating the starscape were mountains which reared like the silvery teeth of ice gods. The train was due any minute. His contact had not appeared. And several men were picking their way up the track in the darkness.

From his travel-worn suitcase, plastered with stamps from across the globe, the stranger produced several items.

A pair of assault gloves.
A pristine combat knife.
A compact tactical bag.
And a Ruger, LCR, with tritium dot sight.

Without hesitating, he jammed a moon clip into the revolver, and hurled the suitcase into some bushes. He clipped on the tactical bag so it hugged his deadly muscles tightly, then like a fox he crept back to the shadow of a doorway, far from the stare of the light.

The scraping of hobnail boots was drawing closer. He couldn't see for darkness. His hands trembled gently; but he was never scared. His eyes twitched slightly; but he never flinched. His missions had left scars which could not be seen. For tonight only, his name was Phantom.

There was a shuffling, as at least four men mounted the platform. With absolute precision they spread out and adopted vigilant stances on the platform. All four men were swaddled in black, so as to melt into the very night. They all carried assault rifles with night scopes, through which they surveyed the night like owls searching for mice.

Phantom could see their breath form soupy clouds in the lamp light. Adrenaline surged through his body and hijacked his senses. He saw like an eagle, heard like a hare, and his heart roared like a lion. He clamped the knife between his teeth and tightened the gloved grip on his revolver. One of the men was backing up right towards him. They were almost level with the alcove.

In one swift movement Phantom lunged out at him like a trap-door spider, thrust his knee into the small of his back, put his hand over his mouth, and snapped his neck backwards which a crunch. The sound of their companion's gargling dispatch drew the gaze of the three others and their barrels.

With phenomenal speed, Phantom aimed his pistol's dot sight at the lamp, and dealt a .38.

The night went black, at least until the blinding flash and smoke from Phantom's Ruger settled, and so descended Hell with three demons.

In the pitch black Phantom tore from the alcove, his knife raised, just as a cone of light from a rifle torch snatched a glimpse of him. Three others sprang up like searching eyes, darting madly back and forth.

At that moment Phantom heard the train fly into the station like a missile. Its lights were dimmed. It pulled neatly up to the platform and a door swung open as planned. A shadow beckoned for Phantom in the doorway. This was no commuter train.

Phantom ran as the bullets snapped at his heels. Like a wolf, he leapt off the platform and made a rolling dive into the carriage. The door slammed behind him as it was punctured with several rounds. The train shook as the engines engaged, and it screamed out of the station like an untamed rocket.

The man in the carriage helped Phantom to his feet. "I'm Parrot," he said, lighting a cigarette and sucking on it like fresh air. "A man of many colours. Your co-ordinator. And... where is the contact?"

They were in a cluttered utility room somewhere near the front of the train. Phantom slumped on a box. "Our contact defaulted," he explained, filling the one empty slot in his Ruger. "I was set up. Four men appeared out of nowhere; the bastards were good. No government army packs people and weapons of that calibre. I... managed to help one on their way." Phantom looked down at his hands. He still had the blood snaked around his fingers like scarlet ribbon.

Parrot, a mysterious man with beady eyes and a hooked nose, took a long drag and stared into the distance. Phantom didn't like him. Usually his mediators looked more like civvies than ex-army brutes.

After a moment of silence, Parrot flicked his cigarette into the shadows. The train was still rumbling along at breakneck speed. The bulb overhead flickered as it jolted over bumps in the track.

"You didn't meet the contact at all?" he asked intensely.

"No," replied Phantom. "The bastard double crossed us."

"Then I have one word of advice, my friend." Parrot exhaled the last lingering smoke from his lungs with satisfaction. "Before you get in a car... check who's driving."

Phantom stood up and grabbed his Ruger. In a flash Parrot kicked it from his hand and it went skidding down the carriage. Phantom countered by throwing a blow that cracked his opponent's jaw and sent him staggering, then he grabbed his head from behind and drove it down to his awaiting knee. There was a click and a spurt of blood as Parrot's nose broke. Phantom jabbed his stomach and Parrot collapsed on the floor, winded, dazed, and clawing at his broken nose.

Phantom lunged for his Ruger. He thrust the barrel of the LCR onto Parrot's temple.

"Who the fuck are you!" Phantom growled. "I swear to God, I swear to God, I'll ki-"

The door at the end of the carriage burst from its frame. A man stepped in with a heavy machine gun at his hip. It roared like a buzz saw and didn't stop. Phantom dived out the way behind a metal cage. The utility room was filled with smoke and bullets richocheted everywhere like hornets. Parrot was caught in the crossfire and was shredded like grass against a lawnmower. His blood scattered for metres and streamed down the wall like crimson raindrops.

As suddenly as it had started, the machine gun stopped eating the mag. The last cartridges jingled on the floor and rolled down the aisle of the turbulent train. The whole carriage was filled with electrifying tension.

A skylight caught Phantom's eye. It had stopped flashing like a stroboscope, and he suddenly got a build up of immense pressure in his ears; the train had entered a long tunnel. The Ruger's red laser slashed the air like a wound - it was heavy with gun smoke. Phantom squeezed the trigger and took out the glass of the skylight.

In slow motion, Phantom vaulted the cage, sent a few rounds at the machine-gunner mid-air, and grabbed the rim of the skylight. The jagged glass cut into his fingers. The man at the doorway went prone as the 38s zipped over his head. By the time he returned fire, Phantom had hauled himself through the skylight.

Above, the wind in Phantom's ears was deafening. It robbed the air from his lungs and ran its icy fingers through his hair. He clung to the roof of the train, trying to keep his centre of gravity as low as possible. Even that was not enough. The ravenous train was eating up the rails. Fast. Phantom couldn't hold on for long.

On the opposite track another train was approaching. It was a focus of light in the long, harrowing darkness. Phantom pulled out his combat knife and held it with an iron grip. There was only one chance. He unclipped his tactical bag and cast it off the side. The wind toyed with it before it tumbled to the ground.

The other train finally drew level with a rush of air. Phantom leapt across with extraordinary agility and tumbled onto the other roof. He slipped. He dug his combat knife into the top of the train. The metal buckled and gave way. With a terrifying wrench the knife slid down through the metal like it was butter. Phantom held on for his life.

The man appeared through the skylight on the opposite train. He flared up his machine gun as they rapidly got further and further away. The windows of the carriage Phantom was dangling upon shattered, and inside people screamed. Phantom suddenly felt a searing pain in his leg, like a hundred stubborn biting crabs, or hungry vultures dissecting his leg. His legs were pumped with bullets in a zig-zag pattern like a sewing machine on fabric.

With a snarl, Phantom used his free arm and shot at the man on the other roof. It wasn't precision, it was luck. The bullet passed straight through his heart. With open eyes, the man slipped from the roof. He slid between the two trains and his carcass popped under the wheels.

Phantom's sinewy arm was straining to hang on. The two end carriages had just passed one another. The knife lurched. He had to let go!

He let his hand slip from the handle.

Phantom crawled on his hands and knees to the embankment. He hazily blacked out.